


Controlled Burn

by Xyletic



Series: Practical Magic [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:30:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyletic/pseuds/Xyletic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her first alarmed thought is that something has gone wrong with the magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Controlled Burn

Meraad has been fussing with her forge for what feels like hours, cursing the rain that got in through the roof and soaked the bellows, when she hears hesitant footsteps behind her. She straightens, pushing sweat-soaked hair from her eyes, and turns to smile at the boy standing in the smithy's doorway.

Talan doesn't return the greeting. He's chewing on his lip, a baby habit she thought long since outgrown, and he won't meet her eyes; his gaze flickers from the floor to the forge and back again.

Her first alarmed thought is that something has gone wrong with the magic. Talan has been gaining more confidence and control, but there's nothing to say he couldn't have slipped - she's been a smith for almost three decades and isn't immune to occasionally hitting her thumb with a hammer.

Old fear rises to choke her. She remembers the results of other slips; smoothing healing salve on her son's self-inflicted burns, felling trees scorched black by misaimed arcs of lightning, and on one occasion discreetly burying the charred carcass of a fox that got in the way during a lesson. Talan doesn't seem to be outwardly injured, and that is reassuring, but it does little to ease other, darker spectres which she normally tries to force to the back of her mind.

Meraad drops the useless bellows onto the bench, paying no mind to the protesting wheeze of air that results, and crosses the room to her son in two strides. Pushing down the black dread that she might look into his face and see something utterly alien, she gently tilts his chin up with one callused finger until he meets her gaze. There is no panic in his eyes, which goes some way towards easing her own; instead, she sees a mix of self-consciousness and stubbornness that she remembers well from his first stumbling attempts at the common tongue.

'Is something wrong?'

Talan shakes his head and says something she doesn't quite catch, then takes a deep breath before speaking more loudly. ' I want to help. With the forge.'

It takes Meraad a moment to realise what he's saying; the words don't hold the same meaning they might have done before the magic showed itself.

 _Oh_ , she thinks. This is a new thing, and she feels strangely honoured. As far as she knows, up until now Talan has kept his gift strictly within the confines of his lessons (which she watched, from a safe distance, until she realised that her presence was making him nervous.)

'I can do it.' he insists. The earnestness in his tone is painful; beneath her hands, her son is almost trembling. This summer has set him growing like the spindleweed that flourishes behind their home, but for all the height he's gained and the horns that now curve sharply over his head, he is a child still.

'I know, kadan.'

Some of the tension leaves him at her words. Meraad gestures to the forge. 'I have been arguing with the stubborn thing for hours. Perhaps you can be more persuasive.'

It is implicit permission. Talan crosses the floor to stand beside the forge. She watches him collect himself, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep, slow breath. After a moment's stillness, he raises his hands and describes a complex, graceful arc in the air. The roar of flame, a sound as familiar as her own voice, fills the small space; Meraad blinks against the sudden light, afterimages dancing across her vision.

As it fades, Talan swims back into focus, smiling like a sunbeam. There's a thin trickle of blood on his lip where he's bitten clean through it in concentration.

'Well done, kadan.' Meraad says, somewhat weakly. It's poor praise, considering that the last time she watched him perform magic he could barely hold a spell for more than a few seconds at a time, but she doesn't have the words or the knowledge to praise him as his tutor would. She settles for pulling him into a rough hug, mindful of the sharp new points of his horns. He smells of soap and smoke and something she can't quite identify, perhaps the magic; the palms of his hands are still warm where they rest against her. When they part, she searches his face for the self-consciousness she saw before and finds no trace of it.

'Go tell Saatareth.' she says, ruffling his hair. 'And any time you want to help me, just ask. It will be good practice for you.'

He's gone in an instant, bolting up the rutted road in a blur of gangly limbs and oversized feet. Meraad shakes her head fondly and turns back to the forge, which is spitting sparks.

Three decades as a smith, years with a mage son, and she never considered the more practical applications of magic before today. A consequence of her upbringing, perhaps, but that is no excuse. She is in the Free Marches, not Seheron, and that life is no more substantial than her shadow; even the memories of their flight have dimmed with time and distance.

Meraad is not changeless. She will not allow herself to be. She can shed the remnants of Seheron still clinging to her and grow, just as Talan is growing, in a land where her son will never be masked and leashed. And if lighting the forge is enough to bring that sunlight smile to his face, she will be quite happy to forgo the business of the bellows altogether.


End file.
